TSOU Part II: The Swerting Darklander War
by Bauglir100
Summary: The second part of The Servants of Ungoliant. During the War of Wrath, Elves from Beleriand and the Utter East journey to the Southern lands of Middle-earth, just in time to witness a great war between the Men of Harad and the servants of the malevolent rulers of Mórenorë. Meanwhile, a legion of Ungoliant's soldiers battles to reach the Red Palace of the Sunlands, and raze it.
1. The Village

When the war-bird flew out of sight, Findecáno jumped back to his feet as soon as he could, and ran from the Hill as if the Dark King himself were after him. He fled across the field, mattock in hand. Aerandir soon followed him, abandoning his shattered lantern. Lenwë and Dínendal rose up from the ground after the war-bird knocked them down, but Golradir had broken his leg in the fall; he had fallen hard, banging his knee in their cluttered equipment. His two companions caught themselves in their flight and took the time to carry their wounded kinsman down the Hill.

But they did not know where Findecáno and Aerandir had gone.

"Fly!" shouted Golradir, over his pain. "Fly now! Fly now! Escape the flying death!"

The three soon found themselves in a gully at the foot of the Hill. They all collapsed inside it, and Dínendal proceeded to tend to Golradir's wound, but they heard footsteps outside, and did not move. The footfalls sounded like rapid metal thuds in the soft earth. They seemed to grow louder and louder, but soon went silent; the runner had gone further and further from their hiding place.

A few minutes later, they felt rumbling coming up the far side of the Hill; something massive was climbing it. Then, they heard a loud trumpeting that stirred them all. At that moment, a wild Mûmak from out of the Forest was on the hill-top. The great beast was nearing their hollow.

All the while, Vyköl and the war-bird had just bypassed the northern pass of the Islands of Ormal, and were heading southwards, nearing the Black Screw. It was now noon, but the sky could not tell that at this time; a storm was brewing above them. They lowered their altitude to avoid the storm's wrath, when they heard a series of faint sounds from the Islands below. It sounded like a great drum, or a war-chant. They saw pillars of smoke rise slowly from the tree-lined shores of the centre of the archipelago. Vyköl bent over and hissed something unintelligible into the war-bird's ear-hole, and it descended even further. Vyköl then bent sideways on the war-bird's wingspan, sprang, and dropped down to the Island.

The northernmost extension of Mórenorë was still sixty leagues from the Island. The war-bird circled the patch of trees that Vyköl landed in. Vyköl climbed down from the tree-top, tilted his spiked head upwards and beckoned the war-bird to hide. Then the spiked monster moved further into the Island towards the sounds.

Meanwhile, Findecáno and Aerandir ran on through the fields, and caught sigh of a large village in the distance.

The people that dwelt there were ever vigilant of their surroundings. From afar, the Gong-horn filled the air with its dreadful blasting noises. They feared for the worst. The sentinels of the village looked out over the hills and saw a great dark mass move recklessly along the fields. A dark shadow passed over them minutes later, and they fled back to their folk, consumed by fear.

The folk of the village were known as the Swertings. They were Men of a dark skin color. Darker than the fair-skinned Men of the North. They were a proud people, albeit impaired in their range of technology.

This village housed five hundred Men and women, headed by a clan consisting of an elderly chieftain, his consorts, their five sons, and twin daughters. They dwelt in a spacious red house in the midst of the village.

The chieftain's younger brother also dwelt with them, along with his own children: three sons and a single daughter.

The village was a half a league in diameter, and was surrounded by a wall of sharpened poles planted within a trench. The dwellings were pavilions and tents of many sizes and hues. In the centre of the settlement was the clan's house. To the western side of the house was the marketplace, and to the East, the temple and inns could be found.

Beyond the outer barriers, Findecáno and Aerandir looked out upon the village. They marveled at the sight of it.

"Simply astonishing." said Findecáno. "An entire settlement of Men this far to the South."

When the war-bird had flown over the village earlier, the sentinels had fled from the outer barriers, so no one stopped the two Elves from taking the path into the village. They found a red cloak on the ground near the trench, and Aerandir donned it. It was the cloak of a village sentinel.

The walked on and came into the North-side of the village. They came along many pavilions, ignoring the peering eyes. The Elves sought refuge from those in charge of the village. They were stopped suddenly, by another sentinel as they neared the red house.

The sight of the sentinel astonished the Elves. His dark skin, polished wooden mask, and red robe gleamed brightly in the sunlight.

Findecáno attempted to speak to the sentinel, but he could not comprehend his reply. Several people, exiting their dwellings, surrounded the two Elves, and muttered things in their native tongue to each other that were unintelligible.

It was not until the sentinel gestured the two Elves towards the red house that they were able to escape the crowd. The crowd parted at the sentinel's whim, and retreated back into their tents. The Elves were marched into the red house and brought before the chieftain. The Chieftain was thin, and had a short white beard. He had a broad red scepter damasked with serpentine shapes along its edges. He was clad in red robes and a violet cloak. He stood under an open light shaft in the house.

"Welcome, strangers." said the chieftain in perfect Westron.

"You can speak the Common tongue?" asked Aerandir, also in Westron.

"Indeed. Yes, I can." said the Swerting chieftain, smiling. "Now what is your business here, friends?"

"We were seeking refuge from the War in the North." said Findecáno in Westron.

"But it seems trouble followed, or found, us." added Aerandir.

The door burst open, and two sentinels rushed in. In their tongues, they announced tidings to the chieftain: The Gongs of the Suza Sumar were infuriated by something, and that they were hunting the lands for it.

"_They will search our village, come sunset!_" One of them said.

"_Rally the watchmen!_" replied the chieftain. "_Retain vigilance, for we shall not go blind in the night!_

"My friends!" he said in Westron to the Elves. "The monsters of the jungle will be here in as the sun fails. I advise you flee."

"We cannot!" replied Findecáno. "We have unleashed a terrible burden upon you already."

He removed the casing that held the darkened jewel, and held it aloft. The chieftain walked up to him, and stared at the jewel. He seemed puzzled by it, but shook his head, grimly.

"It is a sad day for us all." said he.

"But we must not despair!" said Aerandir. "We could hold the village. We cannot leave your people to fall prey to the creatures of the Forest."

"Indeed, you shall not." said the Swerting. "But you may rest here for the day. The guards shall keep watch over the village. My folk shall assist you…when the time is right."


	2. The Board is Set

Vyköl advanced closer and closer into the Island. He crept among the under-growth under the many trees. The thunder crashed in the sky. The cries grew louder. The Island was shaken by the waves. Vyköl grew impatient. He was annoyed by this delay. He no longer crept, but ran swiftly towards the smoke.

He came to a rock-covered hill. On top of it, a great fire was burning. Around the hill, a mob of large black shapes were dancing all round it. They were carrying slings and clubs in their hands. They were chanting something unintelligibly.

Vyköl let out a whooping screech and the giant creatures halted dead in their tracks.

Two of them advanced towards the spiked creature, and bowed low.

One was broad and had rough skin. He was wielding a spear. It was eight feet tall, and clad in full black mail, save for his mask, which was white.

"Gunglip, at your service!" it said. "The Sarqindi have sought your leadership. Command us, master!"

The other was taller, and even more muscular than Gunglip. He was twelve feet tall, and it wielded a sword of stone. It was clad in black rags, and had white markings on its tanned, bearded face.

"I Melbrik! Giants to serve you!" it said.

Vyköl looked between the ogre and the giant. He then looked at the other creatures.

"What _treachery_ is this?" he demanded, sarcastically.

The war-bird flew in, and landed at Vyköl's side.

"Do you request assistance, O Lord?" it asked.

Suddenly, several loud voices rose up from the group.

"_Vyköl! Vyköl! Vyköl!_" they chanted. They all bowed slowly.

Vyköl stood proudly over the army of monsters, the war-bird now behind him. He bid them to rise back up. He then made a gesture northwards.

"To the Suza Sumar, you are all to go!" declared Vyköl. "If you are to serve me, muster yourselves and prepare yourselves for war against those pathetic Gongs."

He drew out a blade, and stabbed it upwards to the North. The thunder cracked again. The crowd cheered loudly with their harsh voices.

Vyköl then leapt atop the war-bird, and prodded him to fly on. The war-bird ascended swiftly, and disappeared into the South.

Eventually, it was five past noon when Vyköl reached Mórenorë. The sky in the Dark Land was a purplish color, representing the nearing sunset. Vyköl steered the war-bird into the Crack. Eventually, they flew even into the chamber of Ungoliant.

Vyköl leapt off swiftly to meet his Queen. He bowed ever so low.

"A gift for you, O Tremendous One!" chuckled Vyköl, pointed at the war-bird with a twisted finger. "A more appropriate candidate for a personal thrall, is it not?"

"It is indeed." said Ungoliant, staring curiously at the winged creature. "Come here."

Ungoliant beckoned it towards her, and it landed on her armoured forelimb.

"What name do you have?" she asked.

"I take no name." said the war-bird.

"Then I shall give you one." said Ungoliant. "You are to be named…"

But in the village of the Swertings, the chieftain's warriors prepared to defend their people. The Elves spoke with the chieftain, regarding their situation.

"What are these creatures?" asked Aerandir.

"They are monsters," answered the chieftain, gravely. "They are ever-hungry killers. They care for none that they can hunt and slay. My folk report something has angered them into a blood-frenzy. They search for something. It may be that tainted stone of yours. If that is the case, you two must flee."

"But whatever would they seek from this jewel?" said Findecáno. "It is defiled!"

"I do not know." said the chieftain.

"Where are we to go?" asked Aerandir, urgently.

"Look to the Sunlands. There, you shall find the Red Palace. You shall find refuge there."

The Sun was setting in the West. The women and children of the village were returning to their tents. The watchmen were patrolling the paths of the village, securing all the passageways into their domain. A great blasting noise was heard from the South. The Gongs were coming!

As the village prepared for the Gongs' arrival, from out of the North, a host of Elves had crossed the Haradwaith, and came into the tall, grassy fields of Far Harad. These Elves hailed from Beleriand; they were Sindar and Teleri from the realms of Doriath and Ossiriand, but among them were also Noldor that were once loyal to the Sons of Fëanor, and to Fingolfin.

When the Host of the Valar crossed the Western Sea, and challenged the armies of the Dark King, many Elves and Men that were enslaved by the Dark Power had fled to the East and the South of Middle-earth, escaping the horrible onslaught of the two hosts, and the destruction that would follow that war.

This group in particular was led by the Noldorin lord Daurin. The host he led comprised of four hundred Green-elves from Ossiriand, two hundred of the Sindar from Doriath, and three score of the remnants of Nargothrond, and twelve-hundred of his kin from the March of Maedhros.

The Sindar and Green-elves disliked the hot, dry wastes that they had recently been forced to travel through, yearning to travel nearer to the Sea. But they were willing, albeit reluctant, to brave the harsh deserts to seek Lenwë, their lost king, as well as other kin, who had traveled on ahead into the South.

Daurin's folk traveled with them, searching for Irimë, the sister of Fingolfin, who was said to be among the first of the liberated Elves to flee southwards, as well as their own kin, whom had accompanied Lenwë.

The combined host traveled through the fields, and came to a cluster of large hills, just a league to the North of the Suza Sumar. Upon these hills, many strange plants grew. They rested upon these hills, establishing camps on their tops.

But they did not remain unguarded, as archers and scouts stood guard at the bottom of the Hills. Daurin and his close kin gathered in the gully in the midst of the hills, and they built a massive fire pit within it. The smoke from the great fire, glowing in the twilight, rose up to the heavens, and many a watchful eye could see it for miles.


	3. Of Vyköl and Naikamil

**Mórenorë was the southernmost landmass in all of Arda. Called the Dark Land, it is one of the most mysterious, even obscure, lands of the South. No Elves or Dwarves dwelt there. Few in Middle-earth even believe in its existence. Even the Valar have little recollection of its foundation. Long was it hidden in the Nether Darkness beyond the Seas.**

**The Dark Land had completely blackened, yet fertile, soil. The vegetation was also dark in colour. The sky was also irregular: It was bright red at dawn, and lightless and black as pitch after dusk.**

**It was separated from Middle-earth by the Haragaer. On the north-western end of Mórenorë, an archipelago and a chain of Isles bridged the two landmasses together. These were the Islands of Ormal.**

**Cut from the midst of Mórenorë to the beginning of the Dark Road was the Crack. The Crack was a labyrinthine network of ravines, canyons, trenches, tunnels, chasms, and quarries delved deeper and deeper into the black earth, stretching scores of leagues across the Dark Land. Some of these points could even go so deep as to cut into the foundations of Arda itself, and channel into the Under-deeps of the world. At the other end of the Crack were the Under Jaws, the entrance to the cavernous chambers and vaults of the Under-city of the South.**

**The land itself had few inhabitants, save for Ungoliant and her closest servants. She was the Dark Queen, and ruler of this all-but forsaken realm, and mistress of all that inhabited it, and even below it. Countless numbers of strange creatures, most of which were unknown, even nameless, to the outside world, populated the Crack, and even the Under-deeps of Mórenorë. Most of these creatures served Ungoliant as her subjects, armies and servants.**

**At the moment, Ungoliant was plotting for an Under-road to be constructed through the Under-Deeps of Arda to reach Angband in the Far North. The creatures that inhabited the depths of the Crack were more than enough to enforce this scheme. It was here that the war-bird would prove most useful to Ungoliant: sending messages between her and Melkor.**

"**You are to be named…**_**Lungotto**_**." said Ungoliant to the war-bird. "The Dark Road shall be completed in time. When it is finished, you are to send a message to the Black-heart the dwells in the Far North. Vyköl, you are to return to the Sunlands, and fetch more servants."**

"**But, my Queen, The Gongs are in a blood-frenzy." replied her servant, urgently. "If I am to seek more servants, and silence those whining yappers, I may require **_**some**_** assistance. If I may, of course!"**

"**Very well." said the Queen of Unlight. "Take Naikamil with you…**_**Now**_**!"**

**Vyköl scoffed in disgust at the notion of seeing, let alone working alongside, the dragoness again, but neither Ungoliant nor Lungotto heeded it. Vyköl left the chamber, and looked down into the depths of the great ravine that opened before his feet. He saw thousands of dark shapes move in the shadows below, clustering to and fro between the Under Jaws and the great tunnel that opened adjacent to it.**

**He scaled the winding stair-like platforms to the top of the cliff, and looked back down at the entrance to the Queen's chamber. He heard a loud **_**thump**_** behind him, followed soon by another, and another, and another. He turned around, and lo! The large black head of Naikamil was lowered before him, and her snout was pressing against his ironclad chest. Cool air was escaping her nostrils. The cold-drake was looking at Vyköl with bright orange eyes.**

"**Vyköl!" She said, softly. "You have returned!"**

**She batted her eyes; she seemed delighted to see him again. Or did she?**

"_**Naikamil**_**…" muttered Vyköl, clicking his long teeth unevenly.**

**Naikamil snorted again on Vyköl's chest, and raised her head, so that her leathery gray lips, wrapped tenderly along her wide snout, were level with Vyköl's greenish eyes. Vyköl noticed a small scar on her lower jaw. He tilted his head, and inspected the rest of the dragon's long, tough body. But Naikamil snorted a third time, this time just over Vyköl's skull-like, armoured face, and past the spikes that protruded from his metal scalp. Without a second thought, he punched the dragoness square in the mouth. Naikamil let out a quick squeal, reeled her head back, and crept back a few feet. She shook her head, and with a claw, she felt her front teeth, and then her snout. As she sniffled and coughed up green fluids, Vyköl laughed coldly, in a rhythmic, halting pattern.**

"**There now." drawled Vyköl, tilting his spiked head upwards, with a most hellish grin, so as to look at Naikamil's eyes. "Good girl. Now **_**smile**_**."**

**Naikamil, who had earlier endured a blow to her jaw, and just now, her lips from Vyköl, hesitated, and then decided not to obey him, choosing instead to risk a third blow just to irritate him again.**

"**Ah…how you Darklanders are all just **_**so**_** hypocritical and cruel." the cold-drake said, with her haughty voice, feigning depression and helplessness. "Oh, woe is me! What is a lady to do in such a cruel land? Please **_**save**_** me, mighty one! only you can save my from this **_**horrible**_** place!"**

**She yawned, then nodded her head in a dazed manner, her long, thick neck undulating slightly. Vyköl could not determine whether or not he should strike at her again.**

"**Very well, then." chuckled Vyköl, hiding his annoyed feelings. "You are to come with me, anyways. To the Sunlands, we are to go, **_**my lady**_**."**

"**For what errantries this time?" asked Naikamil, bored.**

"**the Queen bade me to take you with me on a most needful errand." said Vyköl.**

"**Very well." said the she-dragon. "I will follow. You may lead on."**

**Moving on towards the Northern end of the Crack, they came to the Eithel Ungol, the Spider's Well. It was a great chasm that opened into the Deeps of Mórenorë. It was here that a secret passage delved under the Haragaer traveled between the Dark Land and the Sunlands.**

**Meanwhile, the Gongs were nearing the Swertings' village, when suddenly, they saw something that excited them. A great pillar of glowing smoke was visible in the twilit distance. Slowly, they all turned their attention to it, their previous goal removed from their violent minds. They whooped and hollered, and charged towards it, with horrible weapons in their clawed hands.**

**But Daurin's host was still seven miles from the Gongs' position, and they had begun to move out.**


	4. Wrath of the Dragoness

But in the gully, Lenwë and his companions were laying perfectly silent, hoping not to draw attention to themselves. The Mûmak had departed from the Hill, and wandered on into the Haradwaith.

But just as the Mûmak had left, they heard a thunder of rushing footfalls in the distance, followed by a horn blowing. It was answered by a slew of harsh cries. Among these cries, two were distinct, but could not be understood by the Elves, as it was in an unknown tongue. It sounded vaguely Orkish in structure.

"Curse the Darklanders!" shouted one. "Once more, they humiliate us!"

"They deny us our dignity!" yelled another. "They injure our chieftain, and break apart our hunting rituals!"

"Spikes! Talons! Fangs! Scales! Blades! Blood! Blood!" screamed the first. "Filth, the whole lot! The Great Queen cannot control her servants enough! The Black Serpent, the Flying Shadow, and, above all! the Underlord himself!"

"And the horn of our make! How did they take the horn?" whined the second voice.

"They did not, you booby!" shrieked the first voice. "Some strangers took it before the Underlord and the Flying Shadow came along. They did not help matters, though! They just _indulged_ on our inconveniences, as _always_!"

Then the first voice rose into a high-pitched wailing scream. The other voices rose and declined in its wake. The Elves in their hiding place quailed at the horrible screams. But all the sounds were subsided by the horn-call.

"Enough of this, you varmints!" said a third voice, the lowest, yet harshest of them all. "The strangers will suffer! But first we must discover where they might have gone."

"Ah-oo!" shouted a fourth voice. "I found something! Lookie-lookie-lookie!"

A Gong-soldier was running along the trees. He was clutching a dark bundle in his thick arms. He tossed the bundle at the Gong captain, and it landed neatly in his clawed hands. He sniffed at the object he held, and opened it. When he looked inside, he screeched loudly. Not at what it contained, but what it lacked. He shut the bundle, then tossed it back at the Gong.

"None of that!" spat the captain. "Get that waste away from here! Throw it away, if you have to!"

"Of course!" said the soldier.

The Gong ran to the top of the hill, and hurled the bundle down into the gully, between Lenwë and Golradir. The Elves stirred as the object landed in the middle, but made no sound, lest they feel the wrath of these horrible creatures.

"Now that everyone has had their fun…" began the captain. "The strangers shall die! Forget the Darklanders! We shall raid the Sun-dwellers by sundown! The treasure may be in their village! To war!"

The Elves then heard hundreds of feet charge around the Hill, towards the East. The hooting sounds of the Gongs went with them. Lenwë poked his head out of the gully, so as to see the last of the hideous creatures off, then swiftly retreated back in.

Golradir heard all this and, since he was once enslaved by Morgoth and tortured by Orcs in Angband, could understand what they were saying. He told his companions as much as he could (or would) of what the Gongs said.

"But whatever could these 'Darklanders' have to do with us?" asked Lenwë.

"I cannot say, my lord." said Golradir.

"Would you suggest that that horrible creature that we saw last night was a Darklander?" asked Dínendal. "And that winged fiend that knocked us off our feet?"

"It is within the realm of possibility." said Lenwë. "What is in that bundle?"

Dínendal stood up to open the satchel. But when he opened it, he let out a cry, dropping it on the ground in disgust. Something was there. Something abominable. Something fell. Something…_alive_.

In Mórenorë, Vyköl and Naikamil climbed down the Eithel Ungol. The passage lead down into a flooded tunnel. But there was a massive staircase parallel to the entrance, which lead down to a larger, darker chamber. Vyköl took the lead, but slowed to a halt. He turned around to look at Naikamil, and beckoned her to follow.

"Where are we going now, darling?" asked the dragoness, coolly.

"To the under-stations." replied Vyköl. "The Queen's tunnel-eaters have built us a service line that goes under the Sea, and leads out to the northern end of the Islands. You will not need to brave the Black Screw again."

Naikamil groaned at the memory of that revolting bridge.

"What is down here, though?" asked Naikamil, curiously. She had never climbed down the Spider's Well before. In fact, there were many places that she had yet to visit in Mórenorë.

"The Delvers, for instance." replied the spiked brute, chuckling wickedly under his breath. "But do not be alarmed. I assure you that they will _not _harm _a lady_."

They crept down the stairs, and as they came down, thousands of voices, of all kinds, rose up from the depths. They came into a massive valley in the midst of the Crack. The valley was illuminated by the violet-coloured sky. Here, thousands of creatures were wandering about.

The smallest were two-and-a-third feet tall, and had shaggy heads. They were clad in dirty grey garments, and they made high-pitched sounds. Some of these pygmies were moving in a hurry, so as to avoid a troop of larger creatures marching out from the Under-city, wielding spiked sword-like weapons and clad in ribbed mail. These were the overseers of the Crack. The Under-guard, they were called. They were a legion of sentinels of unknown numbers, they were the personal army of Vyköl, and the elite guard of Ungoliant. At this time, their task was to keep the Delvers in line, allowing the expansion of the Deeps to proceed as wished.

These guards were headed towards the mining chambers at the Northern end of the Crack, at Ungoliant's command. For one of the guards overseeing the chambers had been overwhelmed by malcontent Delvers, and a violent struggle broke out in that area of the Crack, and slowed progress more than Ungoliant would allow on her deadline.

But Vyköl ran up to them, and blocked their path. The sentinels promptly halted.

"What do you wish for, Underlord?" asked the captain of the sentinels, blankly.

"We request access to the service lines." answered Vyköl.

"Of course, master." said the captain, before turning to Naikamil. "And what's this? Breeding stock?"

Naikamil then let out a low snarl, leapt forward, and with a single claw, she pinned the captain to the ground. She looked down, glaring with her large orange eyes down at the creature. But it did not show any sign of pain.

"Breeding stock?" repeated the dragoness, baring her teeth, her eyes burned with the terrible fury of an inferno. "_Breeding stock, am I?_ I had my share of children before, thank you! If I breed anymore, it will be of my own accord!"

"Uh! _I'yir_!" breathed the captain, as calmly as his situation could possibly allow. "My mistake. Forgive me, milady!"

But Naikamil lifted the captain of the sentinels back to his feet, and with violent strength and great speed, slammed him back down, all the while without unclasping a single claw. Then she released the captain, and shrank slyly back to Vyköl's side. The other guards helped their captain up, and bowed down in defeat to Naikamil. Vyköl guffawed loudly; As foolish as this incident was, it was still the most productive thing he had seen Naikamil do since her arrival in Mórenorë.

"Now that is more appropriate." said Naikamil, haughtily, to the chastised sentinels. "Now please, move on. I wish to proceed."

"Patience, Naikamil!" threatened Vyköl, scratching the she-dragon's side with his clawed hand. "But remember that it is a privilege to come down here; I would not think too well that Queen Ungoliant would take as kindly to _this_ sort of tomfoolery in her own realm for too long as _I_ would.

"And I most certainly would." he added as an afterthought.

The black drake simply sighed, and slipped her white forked tongue across her gray lips.

It was midnight in the village of Avashar, and Findecáno and Aerandir were bade farewell from the chieftain of the Swertings. The Gongs had wandered away from the village, to investigate the pillar of smoke in the distance. They were told to seek the red palaces of the Sunlands, so as to cleanse the tainted jewel there.

"Farewell, friends." said the chieftain. "May the Sun never fade before you. And beware the _Mûmakil_ of the Forests, as they are wild and dangerous."

"Thank you!" said Aerandir. "May the Valar watch over you!"

The two Elves, clad now in scarlet cloaks, then left the red house, and walked out into the dusty streets.

**Notes:**

_Vyköl_= Underlord

_I'yir_= Yes

These are words from the Mórenorëan tongue known as _Renorin_ or _Darkron_. This language was developed by this author. It is never used in the works of J.R.R. Tolkien or Middle-earth Role Playing.


	5. Metal Ragdolls wear Chainmail Headbands

A small armoured hand emerged from the black bundle, and a rapidly droning noise filled the air. The Elves gazed in wonder at the creature that was rising out. The hand twisted its fingers together, and flailed around. Then it quickly retreated into the dark folds. The coughing soon rose into a rattle, and finally the three Elves stood over the bundle, and gazed down at it. Golradir drew his sword, wielding it firmly in his scarred hands. He let out a cry and proceeded to slash at the bundle with all his might.

But then a large black hump protruded from within the bundle, and the fabric was ripped in two. A dark shape leapt from the bundle, and the blade smote the ground, starved of bloodshed. The creature leapt away, and made clicking noises that struck fear in the heart of Lenwë.

The creature was young and small, but it was no less horrifying than the war-bird, nor the abominable armoured creature from before. It was skeletal in build, and its skin resembled spiked mail. It had a shield-like plate attached to the corner of its scalp, the midst of it lined neatly with black spikes. Its scalp was dotted with small twisted spikes like thorns.

Two small red eyes glowed in its gaunt, black skull-like face, sharp pointed teeth were arrayed crudely in its lipless jaws, and its skin seemed to be made of spiky black armour. Its teeth were clicking together, emitting a sound like a rapid scoffing noise.

Lenwë seized Golradir's bow, and nocked an arrow, aiming in the direction of the creature. Terror seized him; he felt his blood run cold through his veins, even as he pulled back the arrow against the string. He let out a cry, and released the arrow.

The arrow flew true and hit its target just above the heart, at the linking point of the ribcage and collar. But it was in vain; the arrow splintered upon collision into a dozen small fragments. The arrowhead disintegrated into dust, as if it had been crushed by a boulder.

The creature leapt backwards, flipping thrice in mid-air as it did so, and landed palms first on the lip of the gully. It arced its back, bent its legs backwards, and slid from its hands down to its feet, and stood upright. It stopped and looked at the Elves, and sprinted back into the gully towards them. Then it leapt upwards and dropped down on the baggages the Elves had brought with them.

It was tearing through a large sack that held spare bits of armour too small and too simple on their own to be worn in battle. It took a long silver strip of chain-mail from the bag, and held it aloft in one hand. Then, it ran back towards the outside. As it leapt out, it struck down Dínendal with a well-aimed kick to the shoulder. It disappeared from view and was never seen by the three Elves again, save for briefly, many years later. But that tale shall not be told here.

Meanwhile, on the Northern end of the Islands of Ormal, Melbrik and Gunglip were debating over the equipment needed to confront the rebellious Gongs.

"_Grigunts_!" shouted Melbrik, impatiently, to the mail-clad ogre. "What **about**_ grigunts_?"

"We shall require _grigunts_ if we are to silence their filthy little vermin!" replied Gunglip. "I do not believe that, Ogre!" yelled the giant. "It would only delay their comeuppance by packing such useless trinkets with us!"

Gunglip grabbed a large black-bladed sickle from a pile of newly blood-stained weapons and held it threateningly before Melbrik. Though, the giant was nearly ten feet taller than the fifteen-foot ogre, the latter was not at all afraid of confronting him. He had killed creatures bigger even than this filth, and he would not allow some half-wit of a giant to forget that. Both monsters slipped into their naturalized tongues.

"_Yana Maswah_,_ Gunglip_!" Melbrik cursed in _Darkron_. "_Huki ves-leak massek naka!_"

Melbrik held his thick arm before him, so as to block any path of attack the ogre would attempt from the front.

"_I'yir_." replied Gunglip in the same tongue, shaking the sickle faster and faster. "_Hano-curi bundik_. _Hanot grigunts, callot-Monu, Yih Manok_!"

"_N'rah_!" denied Melbrik. He was close to striking at his captain with great fury, but it never happened.

A war-horn blew in the distance, and the two creatures ceased their quarrel, and looked out. Melbrik could see a faint reddish-white vertical line in the sky over the rocky shores. The great beacon of the Red Palace was ablaze!

"Were we given the wrong time?" asked Melbrik, referring to the gathering of Gongs that Vyköl had informed them of prior.

"Preposterous!" said Gunglip, ecstatically. "We were told it would be at midnight! It can't be even noon, or I am half Hongwir!"

Suddenly, a shadow passed over them, and a large black bundle fell from the sky, and landed in Melbrik's arms. The giant opened it, and examined its contents, before handing it to Gunglip. Gunglip was shocked by what was inside the satchel.

The two captains of the Underlord's army had just now received a message from Ungoliant herself regarding a war meeting of several important leaders of the Southern provinces in the Red Palace, which was located roughly twelve leagues north from the southernmost shores of the Sunlands.

The foolish kings of these Men were planning to confront and resist the might of the Dark Queen of Mórenorë. But they had been informed that a legion of Ungoliant's soldiers was nearing the palace, seeking to assault and overthrow its inhabitants. The kings of the Seven Lands were gathered there, and the war chieftains of the Men from Far Harad, and the princes of the Swertings flocked under their many banners. Hundreds of strong Men served under them, willing to fight to the death against the horrors of the Dark Land.

Rumors of the Avari sending aid were dispelled soon after the reports of Gongs and other horrible creatures prowling the lands reached the kings, and all hope soon turned to fear and paranoia.

But coming up from the South, came a swarm of wicked creatures of many shapes and sizes. Among them were ogres, giants, and other horrors beyond description. At their head was Lungotto the war-bird. And it had something horrible in store for the inhabitants of the palace.

Meanwhile, the young spiky creature was sprinting and leaping through the Suza Sumar at blinding speeds. It was not at all weak or exhausted. On the contrary, it was growing stronger and stronger with each passing hour, and flexible enough to perform acrobatic movements physically impossible for any of the children of Iluvatar. It was now performing a leaping cartwheel through the jungle, and leapt out into a clearing on the jungle's Southern edge. It landed atop a great boulder near a large cave entrance cut into the sandy ground.

The creature was cackling with a small, wicked voice, as it bound the strip of chain-mail around its skeletal head (but under the shield-like growth), wearing it as a head-band. The strip stretched down near its shins. It would outgrow the head-band's length in time.

Then it heard a series of noises coming from the cave. _thump, thump, thump, thump._ This sound was shortly followed by several metallic footfalls: Something was inside that cave. The creature, fascinated by this discovery, went into the cave, wishing to investigate the sounds.

**A/N:**

Darkron dictionary.

_Grigunts_= Spice tokens. Coin-like pieces of metal peppered with different spices when forged. Unit of currency between the Southlands and Mórenorë.

_N'rah_= No.

**P.S. I am going to cease publishing chapters featuring the villains' perspective. Or at least, until I recieve more reception regarding them. This is due to the next parts of the story I have written that involve them, from this point, containing very graphic, and possibly suggestive themes that I would not wish to publish without further encouragement. Until then, the next chapters will focus heavily, if not solely, on the protagonists. Send reviews and opinions on the story if you wish for me to continue the villains' branch of the plot from their perspective.**


	6. The Sentinel's Tale

A half an hour had not passed when the Elves' venture from the village had been hindered.

"Stop! Now!" said a strong, commanding voice behind Aerandir and Findecáno. It was the masked sentinel from the village. Aerandir turned around with an astonished look. He had never heard him talk before.

"What intentions do you wish to fulfill by going to the Red Palace?" the sentinel asked urgently. "Speak!"

"This gemstone must be cleansed. Please, we must go to this palace at the utmost haste!" said Aerandir, holding aloft the tainted jewel before him. He felt his throat gulp involuntarily as he looked at the filthy stone.

"Do you not realize what dangers you will conjure by bringing that horror with you?" shouted the sentinel. He seemed absolutely afraid for the Elves' safety. It was most evident that the man knew something that the Elves did not.

"There is a place near here, where we may speak in privacy." he continued. "You must follow me immediately."

And with good reason: The sounds of Gongs whooping in the distance announced the battle against Daurin and his host was in their favor. The three saw dark shapes from afar of horrible stature. They did not wish to be seen themselves.

The two cloaked Elves followed the sentinel down a path from the road. Eventually, they came upon a massive boulder, twelve feet in diameter, stuck in a bare patch in the tall grass. It was broken clean in two. The watchman gestured the two Elves to sit in the cleft. Then he looked around for any unwanted eyes spying on them, and followed suit. He sat beside Findecáno, and began speaking.

"I do not know why you care for that filthy little rock, but I know you need my help, for I am the only Man in my village who knows anything about your people."

"Who are you?" asked Findecáno.

"You may call me Mâkûlkan." replied the sentinel, with a softer voice. "Now, what is so important about this jewel, and why is it so grimy?"

"I do not know how this jewel was laid to waste, but we found it clinging to the forehead of a dead woman." the Elf said. "Her skeleton was made hideous by the evil of the jewelry that she wore. She was unrecognizable as one of Mannish or Elven descent. Even when I removed the Jewel, the hideousness of its evil had continued to ravage her corpse into a mockery of life!"

"Did she wear a black cloak and hood?" asked the sentinel.

"She did." said Findecáno. "And a dress of red and purple, but it was defiled and ruined like the rest of her." "And then there was the war-bird…" interjected Aerandir, remembering that horrible night. "I can't say anymore!"

The sentinel hung his head down, and removed his mask. He then looked up and revealed the face of a handsome young Swerting of twenty-five years of age. He had short, curly dark hair, and copper eyes. He shed a single tear from his right eye.

"Then she was Irimë." said the sentinel, solemnly.

The two Elves looked at the sentinel in complete shock. They did not know what surprised them more: That he knew Irimë, or that she was dead.

"How do you know about her?" asked Findecáno, horrified by the news.

"I can tell you, but it is a long tale." said Mâkûlkan. "And I must ask that both of you hear it and do not interrupt me, for I prefer not to repeat myself."

"We promise." said the two Elves in unison.

And thus, Mâkûlkan began his long tale.

"A couple of months ago, I was patrolling the Forest, and I came upon a tall, dark-haired woman with flesh that was the colour of the Moon. I mistook her for a witch. Fearing that she would curse me, I crept behind her when she was not looking, and when she turned around, I struck her in the face with a truncheon before she even saw me. She fell unconscious instantly.

"I intended to kill her right there, but I caught myself and calmed down when I saw her face, and tended to her injury. When she awoke, I started to apologize to her, but she ran away from me into the Great Forest.

"I feared for her safety, for she had no weapon. And such a fascinating and strange person was too great a discovery to let go without investigation, and thus, I chased after her, though she shouted back at me in her Elvish tongue, which I did not understand at the time, so I followed her anyway. As I ran after her, I fell into a spice patch, and succumbed to its effects. What I did next was no less than the most shameful moment of my life: As an hour passed, I finally began to catch up to her, and the excitement of the pursuit and the exposure to the spice drove me blind with lust and anger. The chase brought her to the steep edge of a deep pool of water in the heart of the jungle, with me dangerously close behind. She could not swim, and I did not see the pool as I ran, so nothing stopped me from leaping on top of her, like a wild beast upon its prey, even as she stood on the very edge.

"We both fell into the pool, and for a brief moment, I nearly attempted to drown her. But then, the water was splashed in my face, and my sanity caught up to me, and though I myself knew little about swimming, I seized her hand and swam my hardest towards the edge. I nearly drowned as I lifted her out of the pool, but she leapt back in as soon as her lungs-and inner judgment-would have allowed it, to help me out of the dark waters.

"But then her foot was pulled down by some starved creature of the pond, and she went under, even as we came back to the edge once more. When I realized what had happened, I climbed out of the pond, took up my discarded spear, thrust it hard into the water with a great cry, and slew the bastard with one blow, filling the pond with its black blood. Irimë, though still submerged, grabbed the shaft of my spear even as I withdrew it from the pool's depths, and I was able to pull her out of the murky water in half the time. When we were both safe on the dry ground, she thanked me, and kissed me on the cheek. It all felt very strange and confusing to me, but I cannot tell why.

"She remained with me at the village for a while. I guided her around the lands and the village, and she taught me her language and the history of her own land and people, as well as how to master my skills with a weapon. After spending a month in the village, she came across some kind of trinket belonging to her-and I suppose, _your_-people, and wandered off to parts unknown. I never saw her again.

"The relationship we shared until that point earned me a terrible reputation amongst the other villagers. My own people-my own family-shunned me. They suspected I was housing a spy, or worse; Not unlike me, they all thought Irimë was a witch, or a bride of one of the Underlord's sons. Only the chieftain and his family had shown me any respect or even believed my story, but even then, he forbade me to speak within the boundaries of the village, and demanded I wear this mask at all times, save to eat and sleep.

"On the other hand, though, This fear the village had of me gave me complete authority over them, for they feared to upset me, following whatever task I gestured to them without refusal. But it alienated me from my fellow watchmen. When you two came along, I knew you had something to do with Irimë. That is why I helped you to the chieftain's house back in the village.

"And now, I wish to aid you on your quest." And on this, he concluded his tale.

Findecáno and Aerandir were completely overwhelmed by every detail of his story. Shock, fear, excitement, and sadness surged through their minds over the course of the tale, but never tried to stop him. They had listened to him from beginning to end.

"But if what you are saying is true," said Findecáno. "Then you know about the war in the North."

"And of the war-bird?" piped in Aerandir.

"I do." said Mâkûlkan. "I also know the safest route to the Red Palace. Do not take the paths that the chieftain recommended. He is not as aware of current events as I. We cannot leave yet, anyhow, for the wilderness is too dangerous at this time."

"Then we shall remain here for the night?" asked Aerandir.

"You _must_-" nodded Mâkûlkan, vigilantly looking out into the land beyond, pulling a long knife out from under his cloak. "Stay here! Something isn't right. I shall return at the break of dawn. And by the Valar themselves, _Do not leave this spot_!"

And he walked out into the darkness without another word, knife in hand. The Elves looked at each other, confused.


	7. The Pale Dawn

It was four o'clock in the early morning now, the sky was a dark grayish-blue. The winds were fast and unusually cold, and Findecáno and Aerandir still could not sleep. They sat down in the midst of the split boulder, facing each other. Their backs were against their respective sides of the broken rock. They were looking around at the land around them.

"Do you suppose that Mâkûlkan will return soon?" said Findecáno, uncertain. "I wish to move on. I refuse to wait any longer than necessary here.

"I do not know." moaned Aerandir, shaking his head lazily. "But I fear the worst right now. I have been experiencing horrible visions in my sleep. They did not seem like dreams, mind you. But like something else. Something real, yet not quite."

"I have been dreaming the same thing for the last few weeks since I was freed from the dungeons of Morgoth: Orc-faces screaming at me from the Darkness as I writhed in pain, as they close in on me, with ravenous eyes, and blood dripping from their mouths. _My_ blood! And then I could see him…I see _Him_! Laughing with that horrible voice. The voice that freezes my very blood!"

"Calm yourself, friend." assured Aerandir. "I am certain that the War will end before we know it. We will be able to return home soon enough."

"If there is a home to return to." said Findecáno, with sorrow. "If there is a way to return home. If there _is_ a chance of return! If there is any _reason_ to return! I, for one, have no hope for our kin in Beleriand. When the War broke out, we had two choices: flee and live on, or we stay and die. We fled! We will _live_!"

"But for how long shall we remain here?" said Aerandir. "I fear the lands of the South no less than the wars in the West."

"I miss nothing about that ghastly land. We were all fools, warring amongst ourselves over petty desires. We were no better than _Orcs_!"

"Hush, Findecáno!" whispered Aerandir, with a fearful voice. "I hear something in the air. A fell voice from out of the South. Something is near. But I do not know what it could be."

"Could it be the war-bird?" asked Findecáno. "Perhaps we should have asked the chieftain, or Mâkûlkan, about it. But perhaps-"

"It might be." interrupted Aerandir. "But I do not think so. It is something else."

Findecáno shifted uneasily in place. Then the two Elves looked up into the sky in unison. They stared blankly at the gray skies above, smiling dumbly. A dark shape zipped across the sea of grey clouds. Not the war-bird, but a simple carrion-bird. It was followed later by another. And then another. And then five more flew over them in the opposite direction from the first three. Aerandir lowered his head and mouthed something to Findecáno, who still looked up, staring blankly still at the heavens.

Then they heard rustling around them. Something was moving towards the boulder. It sounded as though it was crawling in the tall grass. They heard sniffling sounds, followed by low growls. The sounds grew faster, and the rustling louder.

"What in the name of the Valar is that?" whispered Aerandir.

Findecáno looked out into the grass, and saw a black shape that seemed somewhat familiar to him. He turned back to speak to Aerandir.

"_A wolf_!" mouthed Findecáno. "There is a hound or a wolf sniffing around in the field."

"Should we kill it?" asked Aerandir.

"Nay." whispered Findecáno. "Let it be. It has turned away now. I believe I saw something dead in its mouth."

"What do you suppose was its meal?" asked Aerandir. "Or whom?"

"I am not certain." said Findecáno. "But think to those birds we saw just now."

"Could it be a hunting hound?" proposed Aerandir.

"It is likely." nodded Findecáno, slowly. "But whose could it possibly be? One of the villagers'?"

Just then, something producing heavy footfalls walked towards the boulder. It did not seem like any wild animal. Something was drawing closer to the Elves' hiding place, never not turning away. It was not Mâkûlkan, for the break of dawn was not yet here.

"What is _that_?" asked Findecáno.

"Prepare yourself, friend." replied Aerandir, drawing out his long knife. "We may not last the dawn."

Findecáno grabbed his mattock, and braced himself for attack. The footfalls grew closer, and the Elves heard the sound of metal hands gripping and scratching the rock. Something was climbing up the boulder, and they saw a horrible creature appear over the lips of the broken rock. It stood over the Elves, with an ironclad foot on the edges of both halves. It was looking towards the village in the distance.

The Elves remained perfectly silent, wishing not to draw any attention to themselves, and watched the thing that stood over them. It was holding a grey forked spear in its hands, and wore iron mail on its chest and beltline, but wore leather, padded trousers on its long legs. Its skin was blackish-green in colour, and had a gaunt, rat-like face with large white bloodshot eyes, short, wild dark hair, and a gaping, fanged mouth. It was a Gong.

Evidently, Daurin's people were all slain or driven away. But nonetheless, one of these horrible, savage monsters stood, hunched over their very hiding place. Aerandir was contemplating an attack upon the unsuspecting creature. But when he lifted the knife up, his hand twitched, and the knife slipped from his fingers. It fell with a thud on the stone. The Gong wheeled his head around, and began whooping loudly. The sound was like a thunderclap against the Elves' ears. Findecáno held his mattock firmly in his hands, and with the strength and fury of a gale, smashed it unconsciously into the Gong's crotch. With a painful yell, the Gong fell backwards off the boulder, and cursed loudly. It kicked itself back up, and pointed its spear at the two Elves. It charged at them, but then it halted abruptly. There was the sound of a weapon whizzing in the air, and the creature was struck dumb, and fell dead with a knife lodged in its hunched back.

A man rose up from the tall grass, and ran up to the dead Gong. It pulled the knife out of its back, and walked to the boulder. It was Mâkûlkan.

"Thank the Valar that you are safe!" said Findecáno and Aerandir, climbing out of the boulder.

"And to you." said Mâkûlkan. "And that was a fine blow you delivered there, master Elf."

"Indeed it was." nodded Findecáno, looking at his now-bloodied staff. "I suppose that that was a Gong?"

"It was." said the sentinel. "I am afraid the battle has been lost. The Gongs overtook the Elves not even seven hours ago. Your kin have been driven from the Blue Hills."

Aerandir and Findecáno hung their heads in guilt.

"What are we to do now?" asked Aerandir.

"The battlefield has been emptied of combatants, save for a few stragglers. I hope that was the last one. The path to the Red Palace should be open for now. Follow me, ere the Gongs return for their dead."

The three companions then ran down the path, towards the battle-field. The Sun had just risen, and its golden light flooded the grassy, blood-drenched fields.


	8. Of Daurin and the Battle of Suza Sumar

It was after midnight when the battle came. The Elves that settled in the Blue Hills were taken by surprise as the Gongs swarmed around their camps. Scores of the Elves broke through and fled into the Great Forest.

One of these, an archer, was running along the path in the forest. His kin had all scattered upon entry, and a great storm raged in the night sky above. The sounds of thunder and of war joined together in the air. _Gongs_ were charging down the path, pursuing the archer. They were wielding pitchforks and broad-axes, and clad in black ragged cloaks, and brown weather-worn padded boots. The miserable Elven warrior was running frantically from his adversaries, for he was outnumbered, and few arrows remained in his red quiver, which was dangling even now from his waist.

"The monsters!" cried the archer as he fled. "The monsters! May the Valar help us all!"

The footfalls of his leather boots were drowned out by the rain that fell onto the canopy above him, and by the constant rumbling of both the thunder and the iron-shod stampede of the _gongs_. But the archer slipped on a puddle of mud, stumbled, and fell face down on the ground. The _gongs_ overtook him, and one of them took a great axe and hacked his body wildly, even as he attempted to rise back up. Then another _gong_ ran up and stomped on the back of the archer's head with his ironclad foot. The archer's skull was crushed into oblivion by the sudden violence; he was dead, his body thoroughly broken. The axe-wielder rejoined the ranks of his folk, in time to see his folk pile the archer's dead comrades in a semicircle.

Daurin, who alone survived that battle (or so it seemed), sat against the tree nearest him, and wept silently as the storm raged around him. But his sorrow turned to anger when he heard the Gongs' voices rise up over the rainfall.

"_Those bastards_!" he thought. "_They will pay_! _Damn them all_!"

Daurin crept through the jungle amid the chaos, and lay in a sand pit. They were coming. The Gongs were nearing his position. He was ready, though. He drew out his sword, and lay against the side of the pit. He climbed out, and sank into a cluster of spice plants. The Gongs were hollering in the distance. They were advancing through the jungle without rhyme or reason.

The storm was now raging at a nigh constant rate. Lighting flashed overhead endlessly as the violence escalated.

Daurin leapt out and yelled furiously at the top of his voice:

"The Noldor! The Noldor! Fëanor!"

Then, he charged violently into the company of Gongs, slashing madly at the goblinoid savages. One fell dead with the eye-line of its face slit two inches into the skull. Another was impaled through the neck with Daurin's blade. Daurin seized a pitchfork from a fallen Gong, and thrust it through another of the hideous killers, puncturing its lungs with the prongs. He then pulled it out, and threw it at a Gong wielding an axe, piercing it in the stomach.

The latter fell to the ground, howling in pain. Its face was not full merely of rage now, but of sorrow and agony as well. The miserable filth was struggling to pull the weapon out, but the pain only grew with each attempt. Soon, it would bleed to death. Its fellows were too bloodthirsty to assist their wounded comrade, and continued fighting the enraged Elf-lord; the Gong lay unheeded during the entire battle.

Daurin then pulled out a knife, kicked another axe-wielding Gong to the ground, and stabbed it to death like a madman, cursing in every tongue he knew. When another Gong wielding a longer knife charged forth, Daurin smashed his foot into its ribs, and it toppled over to the ground, wheezing uncontrollably. Then he threw the knife through the air, and its tip met its target: the heart of a Gong-chieftain.

The flashes ended, but a tempest of wind surged through the forest. The rain-water was falling harder and harder and harder, evaporating into mist, or riding the winds as a spray. The Gongs scattered into the forest, some running back and forth, but others never returned.

In the dark, storm-shrouded forest, Daurin drew out his sword once more, its blade cooked with the blood of the Elf's victims. Ten more Gongs remained, armed with clubs and spears. Daurin swung his weapon with ease, and with each swing, a bright green light sprang up from the blade for a split second, and a Gong fell shrieking, then moved no more. Eight times Daurin shouted indistinctly, eight times the Gongs shrieked, and eight times the light of the sword shone.

The two that remained fled deeper into the jungle, but once they had left Daurin's sight, they were both slain quickly by forces unknown. But Daurin could not see them, for a Gong tossed the archer's corpse at him, knocking him off his feet, just as several other Gongs had entered the clearing.

Daurin blacked out. He lay on the ground, in half a dream. He heard a series of loud thumping noises, followed by a deep, raunchy voice laughing at him coldly, and saw surreal black shapes looming over him. He thought this was the end. But then he heard the same voice speak to him, hoarsely:

"_Welcome to the South, fair one. It is not too often that I am given to opportunity to…communicate with your kind. I must ask you to forgive the inconveniences. My soldiers are infamous for their insubordination…_"

The voice laughed in a dark tone. The shapes shuffled side-to-side restlessly. But the middle one stood still, bobbing his spike-covered head randomly. It clicked its elongated teeth, and continued speaking:

"_Do not expect me to treat you any nicer, though. Insubordination or otherwise, my thralls _will_ slay you if you violate my laws. You will receive the most exclusive, uttermost punishment, should you hinder my dear Queen's intentions in the slightest. You see, She does not tolerate Elves in the least. I am merely her Underlord; I cannot judge you as hastily as her. If I could, though, I would tolerate you even less._

"_My people have no love for Elves. They will kill any they see in our lands, or anywhere our occupation, including here. Turn back to the North. But even if you do so, remember the South…_" The voice dropped even lower, into a hissing growl. "…_Or the South will remember you!_"

The shapes clustered and flooded Daurin's vision, and the Underlord's voice rose into a distorted cackle. He felt cold, metal-skinned hands seize his stomach and throat with spiked fingers, and shake him violently. A voice spoke out to him. It sounded youthful and healthy, and not as deep as the Underlord's evil voice, but it sounded as though it were spoken through a metallic filter:

"_Wake now, or wake in Mandos! Wake now, fool! Wake now!_"

Daurin awoke in the Forest. He let the memory of the vision subside. The storm had died down to a mild rainfall. The Gongs had now regrouped, and were inspecting the bodies of the fallen. Daurin was fortunate enough to wake up seconds after a Gong had inspected his body, or he would have been slain as he opened his eyes.

All the while, a second _gong_ stood in the midst of the horde, and raised his clawed hand aloft in triumph. His comrades cheered with dreadful voices. The _gong_ then spoke with a thick accent:

"This was the last of 'em to come here! Soon the rest of 'em will be broken to bits! The eve is nigh, laddies, of their downfall! Let us give them our farewell! To Avashar! The Sun-dwellers die next!"

The other Gongs shook their weapons aloft, waved their shields, and cried out with shrill voices, a constant string of loud, high-pitched whoops. It resembled a fast-paced chant:

"_Whoo, Whoo, Whoo, Whoo, Whoo, Whoo!_"

Then the sound of great drums rose up, and a hideous song began; The Gongs were beginning to sing, or rather speak to a rhythm, about what to do with tonight's kills. They were dancing about with such might, as they did so. What they were saying was completely unknown; Daurin could not understand it, nor wished to do so.

"Fool!" said a masked Gong armed with a sickle, pointing at Daurin, who was stirring. "This one still remains alive! We should kill him!"

More Gongs were swarming into the clearing. They were hollering, and shaking their weapons aloft. There were no less than fourteen of them. Three were advancing towards the wounded Elf-lord with slavering mouths. One of them was carrying a massive double-bladed axe in its claws, and was growling slowly. The other two were the Gong with the thick accent, presumably a captain, and the masked warrior with the sickle.

Daurin was breathing hard, for his left arm was reaching in vain for a knife. The other arm was buried underneath the fallen archer's body. Daurin's sword lay between the two, its blade split in three parts.

There was no escape. The Gong with the axe was vocalizing in a crude manner as it approached Daurin. It raised the heavy blade six feet over the Noldo's neck, and grunted loudly. It was the end…

_Whiz, whiz, whiz. Thump, thump, thump. Thud, thud, thud._

Dozens of bowstrings twanged, and arrows whistled through the air, and the three Gongs standing over Daurin fell dead, their stiff bellies riddled with puncture wounds, bleeding black blood, the newcomers' darts protruding from the midst of each. The rest fled in a blind panic, striking at each other as they scattered. Some of them dragging arrows sticking out of their limbs.

Then Daurin struggled to sit up, and saw many Elves run into the clearing, wielding axes, clubs, spears, and bows. They were all clad in brown and red raiment, with bluish-green cloaks. Some with long wild hair of crimson, silver, and bronze hair, and pallid, unblemished skin. Some of them were wearing wooden masks. They were not of the Noldor.

Four of them were inspecting the three dead Gongs, plucking the darts from their corpses. Daurin saw another two nock white-feathered arrows into their slender ebony bows and take aim at him. Daurin cried out and cursed in both Sindarin and Quenya, not out of fear alone, but from the stress and pain of his wounds. The other Elves present jumped to their feet, and proceeded to cry out in their own tongues, drawing additional weapons from their copper belts. But in an instance, all the clamor subsided, and one of the Elves, a maiden clad in rubbery dun raiment with an olive-colored mantle, walked up to the wounded Noldo. Her face was strong in structure, her skin the unmarred pallor of the Moon, and her hair the fiery blaze of the Sun. Her faintly pink lips were frozen in a frown as she glared at Daurin with eyes of obsidian. She scoffed, and shouted a command to the two archers, whom let the arrows fall to the ground, rebinding their bows to the leather straps on their shoulders.

When the Elves re-concealed their weapons, the maiden spoke at last to Daurin.

"Can you move?" she said in Quenya, to Daurin's surprise.

Daurin nodded.

"Who are you?" he said, but the other Elves ran up to him, and picked him up by his forearms. They helped him to his feet, and walked him out of the clearing. The woman with the red hair walked beside him. Daurin looked at her with uncertainty. Then to the Elves bracing his arms.

"_Who are these folk?_" the Noldo thought."_Do they mean me harm? Hopefully not, or they would have shot me along with those things_!"

Then, when the strangers traversed no less than two hundred paces into the forest, they gently lowered Daurin onto a tree stump. The night was thick with the buzzing of insects in the undergrowth. A wolf howled from afar in the South. A low yell, and a clash of metal was heard even farther away in the North, then silence.

"Heed not the sounds of war and the Wild." said the woman. "We shall be safe for the moment, but only if we remain here in safety."

"Who are you?" Daurin said again.

"Roswen." said the maiden. "Rain-maiden of the Avari."

"Avari?" repeated the Noldo. "You folk are Dark Elves? Why would you help me? Should you people not be lingering in the East with all the rest of the Unwilling?"

Roswen, frowned even harder. Her eyebrows tightened into a glare; She appeared to have taken offense to this question. But she did not turn to look at the Elf-lord.

"We are here for reasons of our own affairs."

"What were those things that attacked us?" asked Daurin.

"_Gongs_." whispered Roswen, with a shudder. "Horrible creatures."

"Are they Orcs?"

"Nay."

"What are they, then?"

"Monstrous creatures of distant relation to them, but are not Orcs themselves."

"Where do they come from?"

"We do not know." said Roswen. "But many horrors have come to the South for many a century."

"Where are we?" asked Daurin.

"We are in the Suza Sumar, the Great Forest of the South. I trust you are familiar with the forests of Beleriand?"

"Yea."

"Then mourn for whatever you were familiar with there, for none will be found here."

"How did you know we were here?"

"We were venturing to the Red Palace when we saw your battle. We did not recognize your folk, but we saw the silhouettes of the Gongs and know them from the start. We also witnessed multiple flashes of light spring up from the canopy, and a figure that shone in the darkness, felling the dark shapes of the Gongs like trees. I trust that was you?"

"It was, indeed. How many of you Dark Elves are roaming through these lands?"

"We keep our numbers secret, but as you can see, we are two hundred, not counting the deceased and your own people." Roswen said, pointing at the battlefield in the distance.

"Did anyone else survive?" said Daurin, fearfully.

"We could not count immediately, but only a small portion of your host fled, the others were slain or wounded. But the latter is greater; Only a few were indefinitely slain."

"Then praise the Valar."

The Avari were now carrying other wounded Elves under the canopy. Daurin took the time to look around. They were in a spacious area beneath the trees. It was a great hall, with brown walls and green ceiling and roof. A hundred tree stumps were arrayed in a two parallel lines in its midst. There were no other structures in the forest. The Canopy Hall was ten leagues long and ninety feet wide, and extended from the mouth of the River of Serpents to the South to the Blue Hills in the North. The Northern entrance was a small cave concealed by spice plants. The Hall was accessible from the South by a submerged tunnel under the River of Serpents. But it was also accessible from the West and East by the Great Forest, but the labyrinthine clusters of thick shrubbery prevented travelers, save those that knew the true path there, from entering so easily.

There were many piles of firewood under the canopy. One of the Avari was singing quietly as he stood over the largest pile. Another was pacing the width of the Hall. Daurin saw three others that were helping a wounded archer of the Sindar onto a tree-stump six meters away from Daurin.

Once the storm had ended, several hours later, at least four hundred and seventy-three Elves stood and sat under the roof of the Canopy Hall. Some wounded, some dying, and some weeping for the fallen. Others were singing laments for their fallen kin. The Moon was almost setting when a loud noise drowned out all of the lamenting. A small dark shape ran down the lanes of the Hall, and lashed out at any that stood in its path. It was a horrible sight for the Noldo, Sinda, and Avar alike. It had skin like spiked armour, and wore a long strip of chain-mail around its skeletal head. It leapt over six tree stumps, and everyone scattered, some stumbling beyond the walls of trees. Some of the Avari and Sindar stood fast, grabbing their bows, and shot darts and arrows at the creature. But every projectile that met their target splintered and lay broken on the ground.

After the creature ran through, voices raised after it in fury. When the creature disappeared into the distance, three more figures ran into the Hall amid the chaos from the North and collided with Roswen's guard. Elves of each house began drawing out their arms, and backed away from the three strangers. The middle one jumped to his feet, and shouted indistinctly in Sindarin. It was Lenwë and his companions. All surprise and tension abruptly ended, and Daurin stood up to run towards him. The two Elf-lords bowed to each other and laughed. All fear of the creature had been subsided. Daurin and Lenwë sat together with Roswen, and discussed their encounters with the creatures, and of the wars in the West and South.


	9. The Seven Lands

"Hurry, my friends!" shouted Mâkûlkan. "While the dawn is fresh!"

Aerandir and Findecáno followed the Swerting across the bright golden fields of Far Harad. They were now completely clear of the Great Forest of the South, and were nearing the Seven Lands. The Seven Lands were the seven provinces sandwiched in the gap of land between Far Harad and the Sunlands. Here, Men of different cultures dwelt, under the control of the respective province's King. The Seven Lands were named Drel, Elorna, Kharadûnê, Mag, Pel, Tumag, and Mîrëdor. Each province was well-settled by its respective peoples, yet are dense in wild, untamed territories: forests, shores, fields, and clusters of hills dotted them. The nearest to the three couriers was Mîrëdor, the Land of Jewels. It harbored only four cities, including its capital, Zimrath, and nine small towns and villages randomly clustered throughout the land.

It was at noon, when Mâkûlkan reached the top of a large hill, several miles to the south from their previous stop, he pointed at the lands beyond. Aerandir and Findecáno were awestruck at the sight of the lands beyond. There were lightly-forested fields, meadows, rivers, and sheltered in their midst, a valley of modest proportions. Beyond that, the Yellow Mountains stood proud and tall in the distance, stretched across the Seven Lands, from East to West.

There were all kinds of different, strange beasts and birds visible down below. Many of these were as small as a breadbox, or as large as a boulder. Great beasts prowled the grassy fields, hunting for food, while Apes hung in the trees, screeching to the Sun, or chattering unintelligibly to each other, and bright, colorful birds piped and chirped peacefully as they flew over the trio's heads. A complete contrast from their encounters with the wildlife of the Great Forest.

"By the Valar." whispered Aerandir. "It is a beautiful sight."

"And dangerous as well." said Mâkûlkan. "Follow me, my friends. We are near the village of Anû. I have a friend there, who can give us a home."

The three adventurers advanced down the hill, and came into the midst of a large, green meadow.

Mâkûlkan sniffed the air for a moment, and beckoned his Elvish companions to follow. They walked into a cluster of massive plants, and stopped abruptly. There was a shout in an unfamiliar language, and eight large, black-skinned Men clad in brown and orange robes leapt out from underneath the shrubbery, wielding scimitars and diamond-encrusted shields bearing the insignia of the Southern Star. These were soldiers of Mîrëdor.

"Who goes there?" shouted one of them. Only Mâkûlkan understood him.

"Sit down, quickly." The sentinel whispered to Aerandir and Findecáno. The two Elves obliged. He then turned to the jewel-guards.

"It is not a battlefield, my brothers. Why must we treat this beautiful land as it is?"

The jewel-guards lowered their shields, but kept a firm grip on their weapons.

The jewel-guards were also Swertings, but of a further tribe to the South, nearer to the Sunlands. They had never seen an Elf before, let alone _two_ of them.

"Who are these strangers?" asked the oldest of the guards.

"They are people of the Eldar, my friend." replied Mâkûlkan. "They dwell in the Utter West."

"What brings them to the Utter _South_?" questioned the tallest of the guards, eyeing the Elves with fierce eyes.

"There is a War in the West. My people in Avashar could feel the tremors and aftershocks of it from the safety of our humble village. There were others that fled this way, but these were the only two I actually met."

"Do they look for refuge here, in our beautiful Southlands?" asked the first guard.

"They do." replied the young sentinel.

"Alas, dear kinsman. They would only find another War if they enter these lands now."

"War?" repeated Mâkûlkan, surprised.

"Yes. The Gongs were only the vanguard to a greater threat to our people in the South."

"What do you mean?"

A third guard, closer in age to Mâkûlkan, spoke solemnly:

"The Darklanders have crossed the Haragaer, and have entered the Sunlands. Our people are trying to drive them into the Islands, but we are not so fortunate, for the Underlord himself is participating in this event."

"No…"

"It is true, brother. And not even the Seven Lands are all safe from the War. And it is not merely the Underlord that brings misery and fear into our hearts, for other devilries have appeared at late, particularly in the most recent of days. Things like we've never seen before. Horrible things. _Ghastly_ things!"

"What would these things be, for instance?"

"Where to begin…Our people have sighted creatures of small stature, with skin made of spiked metal. They lurk amongst the trees and fields, and even in caves, stealing pieces of armour for themselves, killing our people, and burning our homes. And one night, not too long ago, I beheld a massive creature like a black serpent with legs crawling across the wastes southwards. It had sharp claws, and the largest jaw I had ever beheld in my life. I would have followed it as far the Ivory Coast, had not my fears of the Islands quelled me once more!"

"And what is more…" began the tall guard. "I have seen a Pale Woman just North of the shores of the Sunlands, _gliding over a pond_. She wore the whitest dress of the most perfect symmetry with her unbent body, as she floated just a foot from the ground. She frightens me more than any big-jawed serpent, or-"

The eldest guard interrupted them, and spoke to Mâkûlkan.

"No more, kinsman. Not till we return to our village."

Within an hour, The eleven companions arrived in Anû. They settled in a large red three-storied house, overlooking the rest of the village. The halls were strong and framed with reddish lumber. Along the walls were rows of maps, scrolls, and weapons. In the corners were large boxes filled with pieces of armour and baskets laden with robes, cloaks, and other garments. In the dining hall, a long table of an unusual trapezoid shape sat in its midst. Fine ebony chairs were arrayed around it. A fireplace was tucked into the wall opposite of the room's entrance. It was already burning. A sign of welcome, if any, to the two Elves.

The eleven people sat in the chairs, and faced each other. The oldest of the guards shouted something to a yellow door just off the far end of the dining hall. The door opened, and Swerting women entered the hall, carrying small baskets of food to lay on the table, spreading their contents on the flat surface. Five more Swertings, all Men, entered the hall from a latch that opened beside the fireplace. They were each carrying two large bottles of ale and wine in their hands. They lay the bottles in the midst of the table, and poured their contents into clay cups to provide drink for their guests. Another Swerting entered the hall from the main entrance, fully clad in traveling garments. This was the master of the house.

"Welcome back, brave warriors!" he said. "What brings you here?"

The tallest guard shifted in his chair, and said:

"Our brother from Avashar has come with two strangers from the West."

"Ah." said the master, eyeing the sentinel at the tall guard's left side. "Mâkûlkan, I presume?"

Mâkûlkan nodded silently.

"Good! Good!" applauded the master. "You are my favorite guest, Mâkûlkan! All of your people are my favorite guests!"

The eight guards made doubtful and skeptical expressions on their faces, but said nothing. Aerandir and Findecáno looked curiously at the master.

"He is a close friend of my chieftain." whispered Mâkûlkan to the Elves, who both sat to his left.

The master of the house was a retired warrior from the Sunlands. Indeed, he was a guard of the Red Palace itself. He had served alongside the chieftain of Avashar, when the old man was still a prince. He had fought in many battles, chiefly against the Haradwaith, the people of the Desert. He was nearing the rank of captain, when his arm was broken in a skirmish in the Dune Sea, and left him forced to leave the service of the army. He eventually left the Sunlands, and migrated to Mîrëdor of the Seven Lands, establishing his fine abode in the village of Anû.

In time, his arm was healed, but he came to love the wild spaces of the Seven Lands, and refused to return to the Sunlands. He would occasionally journey northward towards the Suza Sumar, to visit the village of Avashar. He was blissfully ignorant of current events, as was the rest of the village; He had not journeyed southwards in twenty-eight long years, and severed all contact between him and the Sunlands for half this long.

He knew not of the presence of the war-bird, nor the unrest of the Gongs, nor even the Mórenorëan invasion of the Sunlands.

When the master overheard the eight guards speaking of these events to his servants, he was as surprised as anyone could possibly be. He sat down in the last empty chair, and joined his guests and servants in their discussion.

"You mean to tell me that the Sunlands are being invaded by the Dark Land _itself_?" he asked, fearfully. "And that something is molesting the peace and sancitity of our skies, even as we speak?"

"It is true, Kûbasto." said the eldest guard. "And from what Mâkûlkan told me, there are Gongs running rampant in the Suza Sumar."

"Slaughtering all the people, Man or Elf, that dare enter its vicinity." added Mâkûlkan, with sorrow.

"There are more Elves headed this way." said the tall guard.

"Yes, I know of this" said Kûbasto. "The Dark Elves from the East are my friends. They inform me of the news in the East and North. But of the West and the South, I am ignorant. A mistake, as it seems now. In fact, two nights ago, one of their messengers delivered a message to me. I shall read it."

Kûbasto pulled out a roll of parchment from his weather-worn belt, and recited the scripture written upon it:

"_A shadow has fallen upon all the lands. Hither in the East, we leave our homes, but for what purpose, we do not know. But we dare not go Westward, nor to the North. We are left with only the wilds of the South._"

The Swertings were all silent. The room was dark, and the Sun was setting. Kûbasto continued:

"_We thank you, Kûbasto, Warrior of the South, for your friendship. For some time, our people have been troubled by mysterious visions and shadows in our minds. But it is not our minds that are troubled, but something else prowls the lands, lurking amongst us. A presence of a most unknown nature stalks us as we travel. We fear the worst._

"_We are traveling to the Sunlands, to investigate this strange entity. We cannot travel Eastwards, for the Sea and the Orocarni would delay our path, and the dangers beyond discourage and demoralize us._

"_We shall come to your village, if the Gods allow it-_"

Kûbasto finished reading the parchment, and frowned. Fear was in his eyes, as he looked out through the window to the village beyond. Dark shadows engulfed the small houses and shacks that clustered below; the night was here.

"What was that about?" asked the tall guard.

"I do not know, Lûkin." said Kûbasto. "But I fear for the safety of my people."

As he finished speaking, the door opened abruptly, and a Swerting collapsed in the doorway. A woman helped him up, but the man pushed her away violently. He limped towards Kûbasto.

"The Seven Lands are at war." said the wounded Swerting to his host.


	10. Through Winds and War

In the Sunlands, the War was brewing throughout the South of Middle-earth. Gunglip and his army were nearing the Red Palace. The heat of the desert burned the skin of many of his warriors, and some even cursed their presence in Harad.

"I hate this accursed land!" shouted a Darklander, eighteen years of age. "This War has consumed much of our precious time just walking fast enough to _not_ get to safety from that damned Golden Disc's light!"

"Silence, worm!" yelled Melbrik in response.

"I will complain until I am relieved or dead!" said the Darklander. "I miss Tygho. I could be eating one of those delicious fruits they have there, but all they have here is a big heap of barren sand! Even with our provisions, we won't last another fortnight in these light-drenched wastes!"

"Patience, Grodyn." Said Gunglip, walking over to investigate the commotion. "We will reach the Red Palace in two days and two nights. After we destroy the Swertings' empire, we shall return home as heroes, and be honored as Queen Ungoliant's magnificent champions!"

"Forget honor, my lord!" said Grodyn. "With all due respect, I wish for relief from duty. I do not wish to spend another hour of walking through miles of desert and jungle. This land makes the Islands of Ormal seem like a winter paradise! I never felt so hot in my life."

Grodyn held his arm up, and rotated it for his comrades to see.

"Do you see my arm? My nose? My throat? The burning light of the Golden Disc reddens them. My skin was not meant for tanning, especially not in these damned Swerting-infested lands! I want to return to the Islands soon! I would even mind being shipped back to Grindsmouth. At least they are not suffering through the hottest heat wave in fifty years!"

"This is no heat wave." Gunglip muttered, in a low voice. "A foul wind is coming from the West. Do you feel it? Do you smell it? These winds…are the winds of war."

"Then do the Swertings come near?" Gnaki asked, walking up behind Grodyn.

"Do not be a fool, Gnaki." Gunglip said, sniffing the air. "This is no Swerting's work. This is something greater, and from much farther away than any Swerting has ever traversed."

"How far do you think this wind could have blown?" asked Melbrik, in an uncharacteristically calm voice.

"I do not know, Melbrik." Said Gunglip with a droning tone. "If they could have blown from the western lands to here in the South, I would say the winds have carried over half of this continent."

"The Dragon was fleeing from the War in the West, as she said. But she came from the Utter East." Said the Gong. "Perhaps we should investigate this so-called 'War in the West', to find if there is any evidence that could show how much we should worry about it."

"We should not do this." Said Grodyn. "If the winds can carry over the signs of destruction _this_ far from the source of the conflict, perhaps it would be mindful if we avoided it. If this Dragon you speak of feared a War on the other side of the continent from her lands, perhaps we should avoid the West as much as can be helped."

"And avoid it we shall." Said Gunglip. "I may be an Ogre, but I am not a reckless, stupid beast. But of course, I speak with redundancy, for I have proven my intelligence and potential many times as your lord."

"Well, I don't need you to repeat your words to _me_, my lord." Said a Darklander that was twenty-five years of age. "I wouldn't have gone over to investigate that War in the West if the Underlord himself threatened to butcher my entire family, then force me to eat all their remains…_all_ of them."

"Jhebdryk, would you find a way to speak a sentence that _doesn't_ make me wish to waste my darts on you?" Grodyn groaned. "Why don't you save the repulsive speeches for the Swertings?"

"Of course, of course, of course…" Jhebdryk said. "But all this marching and walking is making me tired, and I am a little delirious from this super-heated air. What could have caused it?"

"Nobody knows." said Gnaki.

"And nobody wishes to stay in this heat long enough to find out." interjected an Ogre that was walking towards them, his large darkish-green body sweating hardily. "I know a small cave buried a few miles past those dunes over there. My scouts discovered it two nights ago. It should be enough to keep the troops from collapsing in the hot air."

"Excellent, Ramgliz." Gunglip said, overhearing his subordinate. "Lead us to this cave. It should not take too long. I do not want any of my troops to collapse from the heat. But then again, it has been some time since our brethren have had a good meal."

Ramgliz laughed, and then advanced towards the dunes. The sunlight burned hatefully down upon the Ormalic brigades. One or two Darklanders collapsed from the heat as they marched, but were brought back up to their feet by their comrades, who even gave them mouthfuls of water and juices from their flasks to keep them walking.

Grodyn was on the verge of fainting, but Gnaki and Jhebdryk held his arms in support, and spoke words of optimism to each other.

After a half-hour had passed, Ramgliz halted, and looked on to something that caught his attention from afar. Gunglip approached him, followed by Gnaki and Melbrik. The Sarqindi warlord questioned his kinsman, and spoke to him harshly.

"Why did you stop, warrior?" Gunglip growled impatiently. "If we are not near the cave, I will have Melbrik slaughter you!"

"Yes, we are near the cave." Ramgliz said, half-distracted. "But look northwards."

Gunglip and his soldiers walked up to join Ramgliz's observations. They saw a mass of dark shapes running along the tall grasses ahead. They were hollering and shouting indignantly at something, and swinging their weapons randomly. Gnaki recognized them immediately.

"Those are my kin over there!" Gnaki pointed to the distant army. "These must be the Gongs that the Underlord told you about, Gunglip!"

"They are indeed, and I think that now that I have had time to put two and two together, they are _not_ rebelling voluntarily."

"What is causing them to behave like this, then?" Grodyn asked.

"I believe that either the local spices have taken the best of Gnaki's people, or the Dragon's curse was more credible than I could have imagined…"

"Dragon's curse?" repeated Gnaki.

"Yes, I have learned much about the Dragons from our scouts." Gunglip said. "I have not learned too much about, but enough to know what they look like, how powerful they are, and that they have some kind of spell that can penetrate all but the prepared minds. And since I have encountered one of these first-hand, I can say that their curses exist as well as Dragons themselves."

Jhebdryk turned to Gunglip and put on a pained smile.

"Yeah…magic…whatever." He said with a shrug. "I know all about curses and spells like that. I spent some time in het-Githlun before coming out here. I guess this is a strange way to see the world that you know nothing about!"

"Perhaps it is, Darklander." Gunglip smiled. "But now, we must continue our way to the cave. These hot winds should pass over soon. Let us get to the cave before the next great blast blows through!"

"What of the Gongs, my lord?" Ramgliz asked.

"We shall ignore them for now. Now, we must rest in a controlled area. Nightfall is coming soon, and it is dangerous to wander through Far Harad under these circumstances, even for us Sarqindi."

"Then we shall just go to the cave. It is only half a mile away." said Ramgliz.

Gunglip's soldiers passed along the grassy fields, and came at last to the cave. It was vast on the inside, and could house an army five times greater than the Ormalic legion. When they all entered, they sealed the entrance with a makeshift gate, and opened a spyhole in a nearby wall, looking out into the Harad wilderness.

Grodyn and Jhebdryk were stationed at the spyhole, and watched for any changes in the weather, or potential intruders. Three Ogres and five Darklanders patrolled the interior of the caves, weeding out any possible occupants that would hinder their rest. The rest simply proceeded to lie down in the cooled chambers of the cave to wait for the violent heat to fail.

"What in the Underlord's name could be causing these winds?" whispered Grodyn to Jhebdryk.

"I do not know…" muttered Jhebdryk. "But I smell fire, blood, steel, and fury in those winds. This is no mere war that causing these winds…it's the War of Wrath!"

Grodyn jumped to his feet, with a panicked expression on his face.

"The War of Wrath?" shrieked the younger Darklander. "Then does this mean the Valar are coming this way? And here we are stretched out in this hateful wasteland! We divide, and they conquer!"

"No, Grodyn!" said Jhebdryk, seizing the eighteen-year-old by the neck and mouth. "The War of Wrath is not our war. The Valar do not even know we are here, let alone how many of us are here. For all they, or anyone in the West for that matter, would know, it's nothing but jungles and wastelands here in the South."

Grodyn jerked himself out of Jhebdryk's grip, and collapsed against a wall. He stood back up, and with a calm voice, continued.

"No, it is not our war. That is true. However, I still have much reason to believe that the War will affect more than the West. It may break this continent to pieces. If we are going to destroy the Swertings, we should do it quickly. The sooner we return to Mórenorë, or at least the Islands, the better."

"I completely agree with you." Jhebdryk frowned. "Our own war is going to be the death of us all if we linger too long here. Once these winds clear out, I am going to tell Gunglip about my strategy for ending this war swiftly. It will have to wait until tomorrow."


	11. The New Threat

Jhebdryk and Grodyn told Gunglip about their revelation at noon of the following day.

"Those winds yesterday were caused by the Valar themselves!" Jhebdryk shouted.

"The Valar do not even know we exist." Gunglip spat. "What reason would you have to worry about a war that is far enough for us to evade direct confrontation?"

"The same reason that Dragon might have had." Said Grodyn. "That war raging on in the West could tear this whole continent apart any day."

"Even if the Valar do not come down here, the destruction caused by a war of that magnitude could do to the rest of this continent what the Black Idols did to Thelgor and Liocad." Said Jhebdryk. "We must do something to cut our war short without surrendering altogether."

"And how shall we do that?" Demanded the Sarqindi warlord, with a subtle frown.

Jhebdryk spoke to Gunglip about his plans, while Grodyn returned to the spy-hole. As he sat down at the hole, he scratched his messy, dark hair. He loaded his dart-bow, and aimed out into the fields of Harad.

"This is just depressing." Grodyn frowned, looking outside. "I haven't felt this uncomfortable since Liocad. But at least Jykale was with me there. Everyone I liked was there with me. But why did so many of them die?"

Grodyn locked the weapon to the underside of his left hand's wrist, and muttered several words in Renorin to himself.

"And I wonder where Jykale is now…" Grodyn mumbled, fitting a pair of tinted lenses over his eyes, and fumbling with a dark leathery cap in his right hand. "And then there's my sister. I suppose that she's in Arvalin right now, blissfully ignorant of the dangers that I am surrounded by."

Meanwhile, just outside the entrance to the cave, Gnaki and Ramgliz were speaking more casually to each other.

"So, Ramgliz…" Gnaki muttered. "How long do you think we have been out in this horrible weather?"

"Hopefully not too long for you, my comrade." Ramgliz said.

"Not too long, at all!" The Gong shook his head, and scratching his ear. "But I cannot help but feel that something…inconvenient will happen again."

"Those Swerting whelps are no challenge for the Legion!" Ramgliz boasted. "I could destroy an entire village of those sun-dwellers without any weapons."

Gnaki noticed that Ramgliz had a weapon attached to his belt.

"Well, I wouldn't blame you. That thing you have does not look very practical for combat."

Ramgliz unclipped the weapon, and held it to his face. It was a battle-axe with a jagged edge, and a trench-knife bound to the bottom of the bent shaft.

"Ha! This is not that different from the weapons your people would use! What is your weapon, anyhow? I will reckon that it a stick with a bunch of stones tied together!"

Gnaki chuckled, and revealed his weapon, which was spear-like, but with an axe-blade near the tip.

"Is that a halberd?" Ramgliz whispered, genuinely impressed.

"Yes. Now what about it?" the Gong replied, modestly.

"And where did you get that?"

"I acquired it during a skirmish near the Ivory Coast, just last week. That's also how I got this wound."

Gnaki raised his padded hand, and pressed two fingers around a wide cut in his right cheek. Ramgliz took a look at it, and guffawed.

"Did a Swerting blindside you?" The ogre joked.

"Friendly fire." said Gnaki. "In the sense that a young Swerting woman, that I was about to take as a prisoner, tried stabbing me in the face with my own sword."

He pulled out a small schmitar from a scabbard bound to his hip, and pointed out the notched tip to Ramgliz.

"Right now, I am thankful I wore a mask to that battle. It is a shame my mask didn't remain intact. It was very well made."

"And what did you do with the woman?" Ramgliz asked, grinning awkwardly.

"I disemboweled her with the halberd." Gnaki grinned maliciously. "It was her own father's weapon, I might add."

"Retribution, if I ever heard of it." Ramgliz deadpanned.

Several dark shapes appeared in the distance: A band of heavily-armed Swerting warriors from the Seven Lands, advancing to Mumakan to aid their kin.

"It would seem that retribution may work both ways, or I am a fool." Gnaki muttered. "We must tell Gunglip about this immediately!"

Meanwhile, a great Elven host emerged from the Suza Sumar, and ventured southwards towards the River of Serpents. There, they would board small vessels and rafts to travel downstream towards the Red Palace.

But along the Dune Sea of Harad, a more fearsome threat was growing: The warlike tribes of the Haradwaith had banded together into a massive horde, with the intention of invading the Sunlands and destroying all opposition they encountered. Upon their great Oliphaunts, war-towers cast shadows upon the desert, and in these shadows, thousands of horsemen galloped southwards towards Far Harad.

Their king, Lassad Raji-Kabursa, took with him a battalion of horsemen to assault the village of Avashar. However, by the time that they came within sight of the settlement, it had been evacuated, its people taking refuge in the neighboring Suza Sumar. In a fit of rage, Lassad ordered the drivers of his Oliphaunt to charge the humongous beast into the chieftain's dwelling, utterly obliterating the structure.

He then sent a dozen of his horsemen into the Suza Sumar to hunt down the villagers. Lassad then ordered the rest of his men to advance southwards, towards the Red Palace. One of the drivers of his Oliphaunt blasted his war-horn, and the sound rang out across the fields and faded into an echo.


End file.
